


Four Weeks

by jlillymoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlillymoon/pseuds/jlillymoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My gift for Exchangelock "what if" exchange of 2014 for auburn recluse... The question that was posed was:<br/>What if John had actually confessed romantic/sexual/extremely non-platonic feelings for Sherlock in the scene in The Empty Hearse when Sherlock let him think that he didn't know how to defuse the bomb and that they were about to die? <br/>This is my take on this subject...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Weeks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gingerhermit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingerhermit/gifts).



> Exchangelock... what a wonderful thing and the first time I have participated.... I would like to thank demonic symphony for all her wonderful help with betaing my piece....  
> Auburnrecluse this was fun to write and I hope that it lives up to your expectations.....
> 
> Enjoy!

What if John had actually confessed romantic/sexual/extremely non-platonic feelings for Sherlock in the scene in The Empty Hearse when Sherlock let him think that he didn't know how to defuse the bomb and that they were about to die? 

￼Four weeks ago, Sherlock had been sitting in a small café in Belgrade. His long hair tied off with a leather strip at the back of his neck and his face obscured by a beard. His jeans and tee shirt had made him look like any other tourist. Sherlock was nothing more than a Frenchman on holiday. He remembered closing his eyes momentarily as he savored the rich and bitter coffee. The hand rolled cigarette had been satisfying in a way he couldn’t explain. He let his mind wander back to the place he was now sitting. The sitting room at 221B Baker Street. His comfort place. The center of his mind palace.

Sherlock shifted his hand and heard the clink of the ice on the side of the cut crystal tumbler he was holding in his left hand. He lifted the deep amber drink to his lips, allowing the smoky taste to linger on his tongue before he swallowed. The meager light filtering in through the window managed to catch a facet and throw weak, amber light causing Sherlock to sigh. Four weeks ago things were different. He was almost done with his mission. He thought he could come home to John.

Then, a week ago, he had come home at Mycroft’s request. He surprised John at that trite restaurant with that insipid woman there. There was something about Mary that Sherlock didn’t trust. A sixth sense if you will. Sherlock’s mouth ticked up in the corner, caught between a grimace and a smirk. He gave a quiet huff of discontentment. How much had changed in a week. John was trying to propose that night, and Sherlock stepped in and stopped him intivertentantly. But then everything happened so fast. Three days since he had seen or spoken to John. Three days since they found themselves in the train car under Parliament facing their demise.

Sherlock shook his head and sipped the whiskey in his glass again. If he could wait two more days, well, really one, since it was after midnight, then he would go to John. He would find out what John thought of the conversation in the carriage. To find out if John was going to be part of his life any longer or not.

But four weeks ago, there had been the possibility,or at least the hope. The hope that when Sherlock returned, John would be ready for him, for anything Sherlock threw his way. Just as he had been since the beginning. At least Sherlock had wished these things to be true while he had been sitting in the cafe,  
￼indulging in a bit of sentimental melancholy. It was uncharacteristic of Sherlock as he rarely allowed himself to indulge in fantasy. Reality was more than enough for him. But he had found that during his two years of hunting, his hiatus, he indulged in this more often than he would allow himself normally. Maybe it was his way of keeping from going completely mad. It didn’t matter. What did matter was what John said to him during these little imagined conversations.

In Sherlock’s mind, John was always stuttering and shy. A bit at odds with himself. But he always ended up in Sherlock’s arms, his lips locked with his own and Sherlock felt himself flush as he thought about it once more. But three days ago in the train carriage, the conversation was better than the fantasy could have ever been. He asked John to forgive him one last time. Sherlock did not beg, his time in Serbia had proven that. However, this was John... And Sherlock would do almost anything to ensure John’s continued presence in his life. He needed John next to him. And if John insisted on staying with Mary, then so be it. Sherlock had dealt with the pedestrian women before. As long as John remained, in some capacity, he could deal with Mary. Even if her nature was unlike any who had come before her.

However, the conversation in the enclosed metal box had taken a turn that Sherlock hadn’t expected. He had hoped. Oh, God, he had hoped, with every fiber of his being. He had regrets. Who didn’t? But that night in Angelo’s. That was his biggest regret. Or maybe it was what he didn’t say that day on the roof at Bart’s. Either way, it was the same regret. He had never told John exactly how he felt about him.

But in Sherlock’s defense, or at least the defense he thought about himself, was that John never said another word after that awkward conversation at Angelo’s. John clammed up and never opened his mouth about it again.

‘But did he?’ Sherlock thought. He replayed everything he could remember about John over in his head. What he had told him. The small touches that could be passed off as friends. The sudden lack of women in  
his life. The lack of dating. The fact he stopped stating that he wasn’t gay. The looks and tension in Dartmoor. And the things he didn’t say at Bart’s. ‘Maybe John did tell me how he felt about me.’ Sherlock stated to himself. He shift and listened to the ice again in his glass.

But he kept coming back to the events of three days ago. Sherlock was sitting on the floor of the car. Watching John gap like a fish. He was struggling to find the right words. “I find things like this difficult.” He breathed out. Sherlock nodded. He did too, honestly. “But Sherlock, I forgive you. You are the wisest, smartest, most brilliant man I have ever loved.”

“Loved?” Sherlock questioned.

“For fuck’s sake Sherlock. Yes, loved.”

“But that denotes past tense.”

“Yeah, well, we are going to be past tense in a moment.” John quipped. Sherlock chuckled a bit. “But, yes, Sherlock. I loved you. You nearly killed me when you died.”

“What changed?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

“Mary.” John answered, causing Sherlock to huff out a breath. “I know you don’t like her. You have never liked any of my girlfriends, but Sherlock, I was alone. You left me. YOU. LEFT. ME.” John yelled.

“I had to.” Sherlock offered.

￼“I know. I know.” John murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He took a few deep breaths and turned to Sherlock. “But since we have no time left, I thought you should know. I was coming onto you at Angelo’s.”

“Obviously.”

“Shut it. Let me finish.” Sherlock shut his jaw with an audible click. John hadn’t noticed that Sherlock had stopped the bomb but as this might be his only opportunity to hear John out on this subject, Sherlock kept his mouth shut. “You are an Arsehole. A twat. A tosser. Take your pick. But God help me, I’m still wildly attracted to you and I still love you. I need you to know that. I fell in love with you.”

“When?”

“When what?” John asked.

“When did you realize that you fell in love with me?”

“That’s what you have to ask me?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded as John watched him. It was with no small amount of frustration that Sherlock noted John realized he was crying. ‘Fucking emotions.’ He thought to himself.

John’s smile was his angry one as he spoke. “At Bart’s. When I saw you on the ground. That’s when I knew. I loved you and I would never get to tell you.”

“But that wasn’t the start.” Sherlock pointed out and John let out an exasperated sigh.

￼“No. It wasn’t.” John shut his mouth.

Sherlock stood up from the floor and crossed the car to John. “The pool.” Sherlock said, quietly. As his voice rumbled next to John’s ear, he noted the changes in John. The slight elevation of his already rapid pulse. The dilation of his eyes.

“Maybe.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand what?” John asked.

“That’s when I realized that I was... no am... in love with you.” John’s mouth open and closed five times. Sherlock wiped away every mask he wore and looked at John with honesty. John’s breath had hitched in the back of his throat.

Captain John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was only one inch shorter than the national average of English men. He was a healthy weight and he had kept himself in peak physical condition. But the punch that Sherlock had experienced when John had hit him the day they met The Woman, the punches John had bestowed upon him the day he returned, were nothing in comparison to the punch that John threw at Sherlock’s jaw in that next moment.

“You. Fucking. Bastard.” John spat. Sherlock shook his head as he saw stars and tasted blood. John had reopened his split lip and he felt as if he was under water. John Watson angry was a force to be reckoned with and that John could kill. With a single punch.

￼“John.” Sherlock said.

“Don’t.” John said. John closed his eyes momentarily and when he opened them again he looked at the timer. “You disarmed it.”

“No.”

“Turned it off?”

“Yes.” Sherlock noted the lights coming down the tracks. The Met had arrived. Their time was up. John grabbed him by the lapels of the Belstaff and dragged him close. He kissed Sherlock hard and without mercy. Sherlock felt the shock of pain and John’s searing kiss. As quickly as John had grabbed him, he released him and Sherlock stumbled back.

“Do. Not. Talk.” John warned turning his body away from Sherlock. Sherlock sat down on a bench and watched John flex his left hand and shake out his right. He’d thrown a right hook. ‘God help me if he ever punches me with his left.’ Sherlock mused to himself.

Back in the present, Sherlock rested the cool ice on his lip, as it had started to throb again. His fingers itched for a cigarette, but he didn’t feel like moving to get the pack he had hidden in the flat. He closed his eyes again and replayed the last moments he had spent with John.

They were both sitting on the boot of the panda car that the Met had parked at a haphazard angle to the kerb. Sherlock was holding some ice against his lip and John was shaking out his hand, still. If it hurt half as much as his lip, Sherlock was sure that John might have broken something. Sherlock turned a bit towards John.

￼“Sherlock.” He said, his voice calm and even. “John.” Sherlock answered, warily.

“I need to go home. Please don’t contact me.” He took a breath. “Give me some time.” Sherlock didn’t get a chance to respond before John slid off of the car and disappeared into the night.

As Sherlock shook himself from the memories, he stretched a bit. A small groan escaped his throat as he rose from his chair, revealing how stiff he was. He glanced at the clock before turning to see that the sun was rising over London. Sherlock put down the glass as he shook his head at having managed to spend all night in his chair, thinking. Everyone else was getting up and starting their days but Sherlock only felt bone weary and empty. Toeing off his shoes and slipping out of his jacket, Sherlock headed to his room. He draped the jacket over the chair before sitting on the edge of his bed..

For a moment, he considered the stash of morphine he had in the flat as the thoughts buzzed in his mind like white noise. He needed something to quiet his mind and turn off the thoughts. Just for a while. But he knew John would be disappointed in him and he wouldn’t be able to lie to him. Sherlock sighed heavily as he stood to finish undressing. He slid the white silk shirt from his body, ignoring the continued tug and pull of  
his healing injuries, leftover reminders from his time away.

Sherlock walked into the bath and turned on the taps, hoping a hot and long shower would help to loosen up the last of the stiffness before he climbed into his bed and slept for a while.  
Sherlock stood under the taps, letting the hot water run down his neck and across his injured back. His injuries were his penance for John, for Lestrade, for Mrs. Hudson. For everything he did to them by faking his  
￼death and then coming back to life. For the pain he had caused them with the decisions he had made two years prior. He winced a bit as he let the spray hit his bruised ribs and he finished his shower. The pain that washed through him from the exertion seemed to sap what little strength he had left.

Stepping out of the humid bath, he toweled off and decided that he needed a drink of water before he went to sleep. He hitched the towel around his waist and stepped into the kitchen.  
Sherlock hadn’t realized was that he wasn’t alone until he heard the gasp from the sitting room. He nearly dropped his glass as he stood at the kitchen sink. A twitch of his head to confirm his suspicion was his only movement before he spoke.

“John.” He said.

“Sherlock. Holy fuck.” John exclaimed quietly.

“Well put.” Sherlock felt John’s movements as he kept his back to him. John’s soft touch as fingers traced a faint outline of the molted splotches on his torso and followed the path of the knife marks on his back made him close his eyes for a moment.

“How fresh are these?” John asked and Sherlock shrugged before John continued. “Did I... the night in the restaurant..?”

“No, John,” came Sherlock’s exasperated reply.. “I came home with these... gifts.” 

“And I knocked you to the floor.” John marveled.

￼“Yes, you did.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John murmured, openly repentant.

Sherlock shrugged again as he spoke, his tone tired and snarky.

“Is there something you wanted?” He wasn’t in the mood to talk with John. He just wanted to go to bed.

“Well... yeah. I... um.” Sherlock sighed as John struggled. John looked at Sherlock. “You haven’t slept.”

“I was on my way.” Sherlock said. He turned to face John running his eyes over him. He hadn’t slept either.  
“You haven’t either.” Sherlock pointed out, his voice was more tender.

“No. I haven’t.”

“John... I.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

“As am I. How’s your jaw?”

“Hurts.”

“So does my hand, if that’s any consolation.” John admitted.

￼Sherlock chuckled before sobering again.  
“It’s not. I don’t want you to be in pain any longer because of me.” Sherlock said.

John sighed. “See, that’s the thing, Sherlock. I think that as long I know you, I will always be in some sort of pain.”

“And that’s not good.” Sherlock said simply.

John shook his head. “No, it’s not. But it’s perfect.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand. “Sherlock, I love you. I’m damned if I do, I’m damned if I don’t. But if nothing else, I want to be here. With you. For as long as I can. For as long as you want me.” Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “Say something, you idiot.”

“I... I’m...” He closed his mouth. Instead of using words, Sherlock closed the distance between then and cupped John’s face with his hands. He pressed his lips to John’s, the kiss tender and full of all the things Sherlock couldn’t say.

John pulled back after a moment. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Sherlock said as he settled his forehead against John’s. “Now, come to bed.” “Sherlock!” John blanched.

￼“No, not like that. We are both tired. And to be honest, I never want to sleep without you by my side again. So, I will tell you this once. And only once, as I loath repeating myself. I want you with me forever. I love you John Watson and I will never let you go.”

“That’s... well. Good. So, sleep then?” he stuttered. Sherlock smiled and kissed John again. “Yes, John. Sleep. Then the rest of our lives.”

“Perfect.”

The sun rose over London, people rose from their beds. They made tea. They ate breakfast. But in the back bedroom of 221B Baker Street, the door clicked shut and the rest of the world dissolved. John was his and Sherlock was exhausted. But as long as John was at his side, there was nothing wrong with the world.

Sherlock’s forgotten mobile on the desk buzzed. Lestrade’s angry picture glared at the empty sitting room from the screen. He would have to wait until Sherlock decided that he was ready to join the world again with John at his side.

The two of them against the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse the funny formatting. I have a new laptop and I am still trying to figure out the new operating system and having issues with formatting. I hope that I made it so it was at least readable if nothing else.  
> Comment please.... hoping you enjoyed my season 3 fix it as much as i enjoyed writing it.


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